The Camford Dares
by writerfan2013
Summary: Sherlock is being mysterious and secretive and John is being particularly stubborn and their annoying case in a well-known university town is not helping anything. Case!fic! Mystery and infuriation but ultimately johnlock. Now Chapter 8: Grunge.
1. Traces of sorrow

Sherlock is late home again. This is not unusual. In fact it is usual. Everything is fine. It is only midnight. Sherlock will be back in a bit.

John pours another Peroni, although drink is not the answer, and in the glossy tiled kitchen of his and Sherlock's flat, flips the bottle top into the recycling. The bottle follows.

Where is Sherlock?

Rain rattles against the windows. It is a filthy October night out there. Beyond the panes, London is a thousand droplets of orange streetglow, the red flares of brakes and streaks of warm and cool white headlights, as cars lurch along the Euston Road.

John checks his phone, even though he can detect Sherlock's text notification chime from anywhere in the flat, can hear it through Tube noise or the screaming of (the shame!) a Robbie Williams gig. Sherlock has not texted.

A couple of other people have though. Harry. Does John want to meet -

John does not. John's dating days are over. He is middle aged by any statistic, numeric or cultural or medical, and he is done. Plus, his sister. Her idea of John's type is so far outside the ballpark that it would need a map and directions to the game. And if any blind date were John's type he would never live it down. He would be gloated over for the rest of his life.

He texts back, _Am seeing someone sorry._

_Oh finally_, comes the reply. _Well, Someone has been pretty obvious._

John deletes the message and walks up and down squeezing the phone.

Then he takes one long breath and replies, _Night sis_.

Because it would be rude to type _Fuck off_ into the phone and if he did Harry would start another Great Rift and John cannot stand the thought of that right now.

Next message. That girl from the library. He cannot be bothered. He texts her that he's busy. _Sorry_, etc. Polite, though - who knows when this apathetic phase may pass and he will once again be looking for comfort in the arms of someone who knows the Dewey Decimal System?

Next message. Oh. Why did he give that guy his number? It gave the wrong impression. And also, they met at the bus stop. The bus stop! It might as well have been the gents toilets. Classy it was not.

He was nice though. Gentle smile. Good hair. Hair is important. It has to be the kind of hair you want to bury your face in, the kind of hair you could stroke and smooth and tease with your fingers.

No. Not happening. John is not dating, plus, if Sherlock got one hint that John had met a male - friend - for a pint, then Sherlock would wear his intolerably smug expression for the next hundred years and that face, that specific face, is another thing on the long list of things which John cannot stand.

Where the fuck is Sherlock?

The beer is gone. Time to stop. John is not his sister.

Key turn, metallic scrape in downstairs front door. Sherlock is here. John flings himself into his chair as if carelessly.

The glass panel which is the flat's notional front door fills with the shape of a tall slender man in a large black coat, and then swings open. Sherlock whirls in.

"You're up." Sherlock is unwinding his scarf, scrunching it into a ball, stuffing it into his coat pocket. His dark hair is wet. John registers this as odd. Sherlock has been outside. Sherlock is not an outside person. He moves from indoors to cab to indoors except when necessary for a case. Why is his hair wet, water trailing off the sharp curls onto his cheeks like traces of sorrow, like tears?

"Yeah." Now John can go to bed. John has reflexively grabbed the paper as an accessory to the illusion of unselfconscious occupation, and now folds it up again. He stands. "Night."

"Night." Sherlock pauses in the act of shedding his coat. His eyes narrow. John is arrested in his journey across the living room floor, past the tower of mugs but before the discarded sheets from Sherlock's latest violin composition. John looks up at Sherlock, who has not moved from his spot beside the front door and is now therefore in John's way.

"Don't wait up for me," says Sherlock.

"I didn't," says John.

"You do."

The deliberate use of the present tense makes it sound like a felony. John is instantly riled. "I'm not arguing about it."

"Ok." Sherlock is focused on John's face, eyelashes flickering, beaming _Nonetheless I Am Right _into John's eyes.

"Right." John frowns a little and edges past Sherlock. Rain from Sherlock's coat transfers to John's sleeve, heavy and clinging.

"_Why_ do you?"

But John has some traces of dignity still and goes off to bed without replying.

In any case, to a brain the size of Sherlock's, the answer should have been obvious.


	2. Albatross

The case arrives in the form of a distraught University Dean. John is eating breakfast and Sherlock is opening letters and throwing them on the floor. "There is a bin," John says.

"Too insecure. You can burn them when you light the fire." Rip, whip out letter, look at it for one second, throw letter and envelope aside.

John lifts his chin. "Light it yourself, I'm warm enough."

"It's not about warmth, it's about people going through my post." More tearing, more reading in a single gulp, more dismissal onto the carpet.

John purses his has been in a snit for days and John is tiring of it, especially the parts where he is expected to just allow Sherlock to behave however he likes without any consideration for other than that is the fact that Sherlock appears not to be talking to John, or only on sufferance as if it is John who is to blame for Sherlock's foul temper. It is reaching the point where John will go out and buy twenty Marlboro Red just to wipe the scowl off Sherlock's face. "It's about your total laziness -"

And then the Dean appears, just ahead of Mrs Hudson.

"Sherlock, sorry, he said it was urgent-"

Sherlock waves her away whilst studying the bald, skeletal man who is now standing in their living room, his woollen coat drooping from his shoulders as if it has given up the fight to look smart.

"Robert Smythe, Dean of -"

"Camford University, yes." Sherlock does not shake hands so John does.

The Dean sits in a chair and John sits opposite. Sherlock prowls the room. "You've come to ask my help," he states.

The Dean hesitates and John says, "Take your time," and Sherlock gives John a maddened look because that is the exact opposite of what Sherlock wants the man to do.

Eventually the story is told. A student. A young man from a wealthy overseas family, come to study at the prestigious university. A dedicated student, even at this early stage in the semester, a quiet boy, likeable -

"Not dead," says Sherlock. "Obviously. So what happened to him?"

The Dean takes an envelope out of his coat pocket. "This."

Sherlock takes the photograph. John stands and looks too. They exchange puzzled glances. Then Sherlock gives the picture his full laser-look.

The picture is a waist shot of an Asian man of eighteen or so, bare chested, with his eyes cast down away from the camera lens. His chest, arms, neck and face are covered in black marks.

Sherlock holds the photo to his eyes. "Writing," he says. "Something about an albatross."

The Dean passes out two more photos. One shows the student in shorts, from the waist down. The final photo shows his back. "He wouldn't let the counsellor take a complete body shot, but I can tell you that the marks - letters or symbols - cover his entire body."

"Not tattooed?" Sherlock says, then shakes his head. "No. It would take so long to do that the earliest ones would shown marked differences to the later ones in terms of ageing and discoloration."

"Permanent marker," says the Dean. "It will take some weeks for the stain to fade. Until then the poor boy has returned home to India. He was too humiliated to leave his room. He couldn't continue his studies. We've held his place for next year of course. He's brilliant, quite brilliant."

Sherlock is frowning. "Humiliated. Why."

"Well - at having had this done to him!"

"Hmmm," says Sherlock doubtfully. "So how did this happen?"

"That's what I want you to find out," the Dean says. "The boy would not give details of his attackers, or where this took place. His friends say he rarely left his room except to attend lectures or go the the library. No one could have done this in public without arousing suspucion. Yet he failed to attend his tutorial last week, and his hall of residence tutor went to check in him and found him -like this."

"Hmm," Sherlock says again. He has his phone in his hand and is flicking through screens. "Wealthy family you say. Enemies? Political, personal?"

"They run a chain of call centres in Mumbai."

"The words appear to be a poem," Sherlock says. "It's not in order, or mostly not, but you can make out a few phrases." He consults his phone. "A famous poem from two centuries ago, about a sailor and a bird. Huh."

His eyes light up as he looks at the pictures again, but he does not add anything.

"The rhyme of the Ancient Mariner," says John. He peers at the marks in the picture "Blimey, it is."

"You know it," Sherlock says in surprise.

"Everybody knows it." Except Sherlock, of course, who if he ever studied it will have removed it as a pointless space eater in his brain. John sighs at him and Sherlock frowns as if John has just made some highly personal and embarrassing comment.

"So what do you want me to do?" Sherlock asks the Dean.

"Find who did this. And make sure they can't do it again." The Dean wrings his hands. John has never seen anyone do that in real life before. "We cannot become known as a place where students are at risk. Our reputation is great, but it is also fragile. One scandal and we would be in every newspaper." He shakes his head in despair. "Please find out who did it, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock paces the room. John and the Dean wait. Will the case pass Sherlock's rigorous test of not-boring-ness?

"I think I can confidently tell you who did it," Sherlock says. He turns the photo so that it faces the Dean. "I can't say he won't do it again, though."

The Dean gasps. "You already have a suspect?"

John knows what's coming, even though he does not yet know why. After a while with Sherlock, you learn his sense of showmanship.

"Look at the poem," Sherlock says. "It starts on the thighs and then goes to either forearm. The later verses are fainter, smaller, crammed in behind knees and elbows. And the last parts are barely recognisable as words." He points to rune-like marks on the boy's shoulder blades. "You always start with the easy stuff - easy to reach. Legs and forearms. You'd leave the back til last, til you really had to. He must have been very supple all the same."

The Dean looks sick. "You're saying -"

"Yes," says Sherlock. "He did it to himself."


	3. Oxymoron

"But why?" asks the Dean.

"I imagine that's what you'll want me to find out."

The Dean hesitates.

"This isn't the first incident," Sherlock says slowly. "There have been other strange events, each worse than the last, and now this." He frowns."You're worried the next incident will ... kill someone... And you think it's going to escalate rapidly, so you came down on the earliest First Class train and you walked here from Paddington because you could not stand the long queue for a taxi." He is on his feet, pacing and scowling but, John sees, in a good way. He is excited. His blue eyes are bright and shimmering and his fingers are clenching and unclenching. John smiles a little because it is the first sign of Sherlock contentment he has seen in ages.

The Dean is less impressed. "You saw my ticket somehow," he accuses. "You hacked into the train company's website-"

"What, while we've been standing here?" Sherlock exudes sarcasm, but John knows that in fact this is exactly how Sherlock confirms many of his theories. Not the hacking - though heaven knows if he set his mind to it Sherlock could be lethal in that arena - but certainly the high speed googling.

Sherlock would never say this to a client, so John just settles back in his chair for the bravura display of deduction.

"No," says Sherlock scathingly, "I know because you have croissant and egg crumbs on your tie, and only a train chef would think that a scrambled egg croissant was a suitable item for a breakfast menu. There are no dedicated dining cars on the line between Camford and London and it is not on the regular buffet car menu, so you aquired the revolting meal from the at-seat service in First class. Your right shoe sole has a scrap of the free Metro paper stuck to it - a paper strewn around the exit to most London stations in the morning, but not inside the concourse or at the taxi rank. Now: are you going to tell me what's really been happening with your students or shall I return to my very absorbing violin composition?"

Please, the first option, John thinks. Sherlock's current piece is a horror of discord and screech, painstakingly repeated in exact and ear-splitting precision, and John would honestly flee the flat rather than endure the birth of the next movement.

"I will tell you," says the Dean. He took a deep breath. Looked from Sherlock to John. "It started three weeks ago. Freshers week. There are always plenty of hijinks and we generally turn a blind eye to everything non criminal, so long as the college is not brought into disrepute."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. John frowns a shush at him. Sherlock gives him a microsecond dark smile. For a moment, all is well and John has forgotten about the case in the gladness that they are friends again. Tension drains from his shoulders. Sherlock spins away and stares out of the window as the Dean continues.

"This was different," says the Dean. He describes a series of bizarre incidents which have each led to danger and disgrace.

The new first year English undergraduates, hurling pennies from the roof of the Library. A French and Business Studies student climbing the ancient gate of the city, filmed by his friends. He fell, but was not badly hurt, and the internet was riddled with cinematic records of the incident. Five Theology students dangling from the famous city centre bridge. A positive tide of hair dye across History, Philosophy and Sociology - men and women.

The list is baffling and diverse. Tutors have had strong words. Halls of residence have threatened eviction. Yet still, midway through the term, pranks and trespasses persist.

At the end Sherlock nods, tells the Dean he believes he can help him, and ushers him out.

Silence in the flat. John waits for Sherlock to speak. As with much else, this is his decision.

"We need to go to Camford," Sherlock says. "Mature students."

"Oxymoron," says John, but Sherlock cuts his eyes at him. John sighs. "All right. What are our subjects? Medicine and..." He thinks Sherlock did biochemistry, but it has never been clear. Sherlock does not talk about his past, and John gets the impression that university was, firstly, something which began aged fifteen, and secondly, involved every subject which happened to catch Sherlock's eye.

Sherlock curls his lip. "Honestly, John, were you not in the room just now? The students were all Arts students. You will be a historian, and I will be a geologist."

John starts to protest - Geology is not an Arts subject - but stops. Sherlock has his reasons. Plus, John cannot picture Sherlock in any form of French literature or philosophy course. Or maybe Sherlock thinks Geology is just more cool. "Ok," he says. "When?"

Sherlock looks at his watch. "The incidents have tended to happen at weekends. Today is Monday, so if we go down tomorrow we should still have plenty of time to solve the case before there is another one."

"Right," says John.

And again, as he agrees with whatever plan Sherlock is proposing, John catches that tiny smile, before Sherlock turns away. And all is right with the world.


	4. Quad

Next morning John emerges from the shower to find Sherlock in the living room with a rucksack and walking boots on. The rest of his outfit is a rainbow mixture of green woolly jumper, yellow corduroy trousers, long pink scarf and a small square red neckerchief knotted under his chin as well. "Beret or no beret?" he asks John, applying and removing a navy blue fisherman's cap.

"Um. With?" Either looks bizarre. Bohemian Sherlock. Just to see him in colour is odd.

"I just wore my normal clothes," John says.

"That's all right," Sherlock says reassuringly. "Historians are very dull."

"Huh." But Sherlock is Sherlock, oblivious to the need for tact, and John is John and he knows, which means Sherlock also knows, that it does not materially affect anything and that John will follow Sherlock into any danger, smarting from careless insult or not.

They grab bags and get a train to Camford.

The town is beautiful even in late October, golden sandstone buildings mingling with half timbered ones, the town to the east of the river, the University itself off to the west, a series of small colleges among pleasant wooded grounds. The Library and other central facilities stand on a massive lawn with gravel paths criss-crossing it to the various ancient colleges. The sun is shining and the leaves are yellow and green on the oak and chestnut trees as Sherlock leads the way from the station through a standard UK High Street and towards the pleasanter arrow streets surrounding the campus.

A small sandstone arch marks the entrance to Grisham College. "This is it -" Sherlock steps beneath the archway and then leaps aside as a car screams towards him, braking to a stop in a spray of tiny pebbles with its front bumper six inches from his shins. "Hey!"

John runs forward but Sherlock is untouched. The car, a dull grey colour with the low stance and bulbous shape of the Fifties and Sixties, now rests with its nose in the archway. It cannot pass through without losing its wing mirrors, but now all pedestrian traffic into the college has to turn and shuffle past it sideways.

"I'm all right," says Sherlock as John's gaze travels over him. "Startled me, that's all."

"Another foot and you'd be tangled on his bonnet," John says grimly.

They stand shoulder to shoulder as the driver of the car switches off the engine and nonchalantly climbs out.

"Ford Popular 1961," says Sherlock automatically.

"Moron," says John.

The driver runs his hand through his hair and strolls over to them. He is thirtyish, tanned, with brown hair and lively green eyes. His clothes suggest that he has recently stepped from a yacht. He is wearing deck shoes, certainly, and although it is October the sleeves of his white linen jacket are rolled up. Sunglasses and the car keys dangle from his slack fingers.

"Oh my god," says John to Sherlock. "You were nearly killed by the Man from Del Monte."

"Rather careless," Sherlock comments as the man approaches. "You almost knocked me down."

"Not careless at all," counters the man in a sing-song voice. "The car is exactly where it should be." He eyes Sherlock. "Though I'm not so sure about you." He smiles and John sees small neat teeth, rather yellowed. He could swear it was a double row. "You're not students here," the man says.

"Wrong," says Sherlock. "Just arrived." He smiles nastily back at the man and it is hard to say whose grin is the more menacing.

John says, "Are you a student too?"

The man has not taken his eyes off Sherlock. "I am a student of life," he answers, his mouth twisting sideways to address John while his gaze is rigid on Sherlock's face. "I suppose I am more postgraduate than fresher..."

"Meaningless posturing," says Sherlock. "Come on, John." He elbows past the white suited man, who makes an oooh face and steps aside in an exaggerated manner.

"Bye," calls the man. "See you around no doubt..."

"God I hope not," mutters John as they squeeze past the antique Ford and into the quadrangle of Grisham college.

xxx

John looks around admiringly. It is a far cry from his own modern medical school in the heart of London - but it has much charm, and a wonderful sense of learning for learning's sake.

It is mid-morning, so not many students are about. Either they are in lectures or (more likely) still in bed.

"The Dean has supplied us with student union cards," says Sherlock, handing one to John. "And he has promised not to question our activities in solving this puzzle. He wanted us to stay in the pub in town, but I think it will be better to be close to the action." He leads them around the grassy quad to a low, wide door wooden in the corner. Each corner of the quad rises to a small tower - the students' rooms. Corridors link the rooms around the quad, and one side is taken up with shared facilities - canteen, laundrette, common room and most vital of all, bar. "I know the porter here," Sherlock says. "Well, I say know. I bribed him. He has put us in a vacant room at the end of the corridor where all the affected students live. The key, he tells me, will be in our door."

John had not realised the students described by the Dean all lived in Grisham. He comments to this effect, while noting that there is only one entrance to the quad, the archway, and that black cast iron drainpipes climb to the mossy slate roof at regular intervals all the way around it.

"Yes," says Sherlock, "all Arts undergrads, all at Grisham. The problem is, for some reason, centred here."

Then John hears what Sherlock said before. That their accommodation. will be one room.

He sighs inwardly. Are they going to have the double room conversation again? John has asked Sherlock on several occasions to request twin rooms in hotels or, imagine, just get two separate rooms, but Sherlock is deaf on this point. "I forgot," he would say vaguely, even though he can recall every pattern of tyre tread used in the UK and Europe over the last fifty year, and could tell you the details of every criminal case currently in the high courts without even trying.

Today, though, Sherlock turns to John and gives him a hard glare. "John," he says even though John has yet to open his lips. "This is a popular and heavily oversubscribed university. All the rooms are shared. There will be two beds."

He strides ahead and John follows him.

There are three beds in the magnolia-painted, linoleum-floored room. Three bedside cabinets, one sink with a mirror, one door to an ensuite shower and lavatory and three small, bare bookshelves. One window, three bedside rugs, three doors into a fitted wardrobe, three coat hooks. "Great," says John. "We can have people over."

Sherlock does not laugh, however, just slams his rucksack down on the bed nearest the window with such force that the bedside table rattles. He sets about examining the cupboards and drawers with many bangs and crashes.

John steps to the window. Their room faces into the quad. Wisteria climbs almost to the windowsill and the window is fixed so that it only opens a portion of the way. "Health and safety gone mad," mutters John.

Sherlock, his drawer rampage apparently complete, opens his bag and takes out the list of students known to have been involved in the pranks, or stunts, or whatever they are. "Here are the people we need to find. We're going to befriend them, get inside their social circles and find out why they did all this stuff. I have an idea or three already, but it would be a mistake to speculate further without more data."

"Right," says John. "Gatecrashing lectures?"

Sherlock shrugs. "If you like. Or there's the Library." He hands John a copy of the list.

"This is weird," says John. "Trying to find out why freshers are freshers."

"No," Sherlock corrects him. "Trying to find out why they did these specific things. I did some research last night. These activities are out of the ordinary pattern of mischief. Most stuff seems to involve beer, theft of clothes, minor burglary of personal items or occasional sexual flaunting." He wrinkles his nose.

"Sexual what?"

Sherlock looks pained. "The so called Ladies Hockey Club. Famed for, I quote, getting their tits out in the bar."

"Oh yes," says John. "I remember that."

Sherlock looks appalled.

"Come on," says John. "I bet you got up to plenty in your student days."

Sherlock looks both smug and shifty. "I suppose," he says, flipping through his list of targets. "But I never got _caught_."

And that makes John wonder. Even though he has promised himself that he will not wonder. Even though he knows that wondering is what starts wishing, and that wishing leads to wanting.

He stares at Sherlock, and Sherlock looks up from the list, and for a moment they gaze into each other's eyes, blue and blue, long seconds when John thinks nothing except Sherlock, and can believe that Sherlock is likewise focused only on him.

Then Sherlock blinks, and touches John lightly on the arm and says, "Come on, it's almost lunchtime. We can start in the refectory."


	5. Lily livered

The refectory is chock-full of eighteen year olds. It is peculiar to be surrounded by people young enough to be your own children. Sherlock gets plenty of stares, and grins around in a terrifying impression of chirpy friendliness.

"Mind if we join you?" he asks, fractionally after sitting down at a table crowded with young men dressed in black t shirts and grey jeans and sporting a range of unflattering hairstyles.

John looks at them. Pale skin. Terrible skin in some cases. Flattened pads on the fingers. Hunched shoulders. "Computer science," Sherlock mutters.

"I know," says John, but Sherlock has moved on and is enthusing about the new something or other chipset which enables even faster in-memory processing.

The boy next to John asks grudgingly what course John is on, and looks repelled when the answer is History.

John senses that breaking into the inner circles of these teenagers is going to be a tough assignment.

He eats the excellent risotto, washing it down with equally high quality apple juice. If nothing else, their case here will ensure decent nutrition for a day or two. He gives a wry inward smile.

And looks up to see Sherlock, his plate abandoned untouched, deep in conversation with a thin boy whose hunched shoulders and frightened eyes tell of expected unkindness. Sherlock is nodding earnestly and hanging on the lad's every word. Around the table other conversations have moved on, but this one remains, and John knows better than to disturb Sherlock at work.

How does he do this, bend people to his will? The man who cannot remember that murder is both exciting and horrific, is personal to the victim's family, is the end of their world: how can this man ease into a heart-to-heart with a stranger half his age, with seemingly no more effort than others would expend on a bus stop chat about the weather?

John thinks of his own recent bus stop chat and flushes. It must have been painfully obvious to that guy that John was looking for comfort, for a hand to hold, for something more than a friendly now he thinks John is a twat for giving out his number and then refusing a date.

John should have gone. Men are uncomplicated. -Most men are uncomplicated. A little light relief at the hands (mouth?) of a guy with soft luscious hair would probably sort John right out just now. No emotional ties, no relationship chit chat, just a bit of action, fun, just some -sex -because it has been a stupidly long time, to the point where the idea of hands on his body is enough to get him salivating.

So why did he reject the offer?

-Some relic of loyalty to an idea whose time has come, gone and which is now so far in the past it can be safely classed as mythological. A while ago, Sherlock seemed interested, or at any rate, curious, and John banged on, hah, Freudian slip, hilarious, about not being gay. To be fair, he is not gay. But it's kind of a semantic distinction. He knows what people mean and chooses to reply with an absolute truth instead of an honest answer.

Sherlock, now doing a rather convincing impression of a shy but eager twenty-something Geologist with a deep interest in scientific computing, was obviously intrigued by John from the very start. It was mutual. They agreed that nothing was going on and then - Sherlock started looking at John, and John looked back, and instead of just asking, or, imagine, reaching across the stack of morning papers and touching, testing the water, trying it out, oh no, instead of that John withdrew, ignored it, protested very obviously too much earning the scorn of everyone he knows, and Sherlock shrank back into himself again, and the looking became layered with sadness and bewilderment, and this is why John cannot move forward or back, because he has hurt his best friend, and to take up with some other bloke now would be tactless, and yet it to would be weak and cowardly.

Those medals for selfless bravery which live in his bedside cabinet. What a pile of crap. He is too lily-livered to just tell Sherlock he's sorry, to just explain, to just - anything.

Their friendship is stumbling along on long association and habit, and although friendship is enough for John, is more than he ever hoped for when he came back to London, he needs to get this other business cleared up. Yay or Nay, the thing needs to be out in the open. But he cannot bring himself to do it. John Watson, apparent hero, actual dithered. And Sherlock Holmes, apparent genius, actual total idiot, or at any rate... cautious type, not a crime.

John attacks the lemon cheesecake. Right. This has to stop. He will just talk to Sherlock after this case. That's all. Simple. just do it. Sherlock reckons he will clear it up in a couple of days and Sherlock's estimates are rarely wrong. Therefore, by next Monday they will be back at home John will have said what he needs to say and Sherlock will have replied (laughed, sneered, run away horrified, remained coldly indifferent) and they can return to what John can attempt to categorise as normal.


	6. Mundane details

"He was dared to do it," Sherlock says as they dump their dinner trays in the trolleys. "The Albatross boy. Someone challenged him to fit the entire poem on his body and he accepted the dare."

"Why?"

"I don't know." Sherlock's face is set as they cut across the quad to their own little tower. "He did it but then regretted it. Ran home humiliated. Not the usual behaviour for someone who has successfully answered a challenge."

"Maybe he didn't realise the marker was permanent." John climbs the winding wooden stair behind Sherlock. There are narrow windows in the stairwell, reminiscent of a castle. This building is only a hundred years old, but it is built to echo its medieval surroundings.

"He was a brilliant student. He must have known the own would stain." Sherlock's long legs take the stairs two at a time with creaks of pain from the old steps.

"Sometimes brilliant people don't notice mundane details," John says.

Sherlock gives no sign of having heard. John rolls his eyes, following stick-thin yellow corduroy legs up a narrow staircase. "There is a darer on campus,"Sherlock says. "I would like to meet him."

John has their doorkey in his pocket. "Or her," he suggests as he unlocks the door.

"Possible," says Sherlock. "Not likely. The conversation I have just had was very interesting...but had too few details. I am going to go and mingle with less socially-excluded undergraduates."

He starts tearing off the scarf, the rainbow jumper. Rummages in his bag for black everything.

John checks his watch. Two pm. Lectures will start again in a moment.

Sherlock is in black t shirt, black jeans and, now, a long black scarf. "Better," he pronounces, checking the mirror.

"Mad geologist not working for you?" asks John.

Sherlock smirks. "I am now a philosopher. If anyone asks."

John looks at the raven hair, the throat white against the scarf, the legs slender in midnight denim. "They won't."

"Ha." But he looks, momentarily, pleased.

"Where are you going anyway?" John asks as they descend once more. "I thought I'd hit the library."

"All right," says Sherlock. They emerge from their room and cross the quad once more. "Good plan. Find out anything you can about dares on campus. I'm going to go where all the cool kids hang out." He twists his mouth ironically.

"Sports hall?" asks John. He cannot be sure where is cool on campus. He spent his years either studying or drinking. Not much sleep between the two.

The vintage car still blocks the arch. Sherlock pauses before he and John part to go their separate ways. "No," he says. "Pub." And with a wave he is gone.


	7. Wary doubt

"The other incidents were dares too," Sherlock announces over dinner. "I suspected as much, just needed to confirm." He is not eating the pasta bake on his plate, just pushing it around. Strings of cheese join his fork to the mass of tuna and vegetables in the centre. He does sip his beaker of water from time to time, either through thirst or the need to establish some evidence of consumption.

"Mass daring?"John asks, thinking about the leaps from bridges, the lurid hair colouring.

"Yes. Exactly." Sherlock gives him a significant look.

It is lost on John. John knows it, he knows that Sherlock knows it too, and so he is obliged to say,"Ok. That doesn't sound like anything too bad. I mean, weird, but not - dangerous."

"On the contrary. I think this is one of the most dangerous cases we've dealt with yet."

John likes that Sherlock includes him in the case-cracking credit, however minimal his contribution. And he likes the word 'yet', too. There will be more.

"Right... So is it just a craze? This kind of thing can sweep through an enclosed society like a university campus, you know."

"I don't think so. Normally I would say, dares, dull, who cares. But these dares are very weird, not particularly funny, and most significantly of all, have been issued by a single darer."

Ah. "All right...who?"

Sherlock frowns. "If I knew that I probably wouldn't be sitting here pretending to eat a plate of murdered provolone with you."

John acknowledges this. "So how are you going to find out? Find the darer...how?" He pictures Sherlock issuing some reckless challenge, a poster on the noticeboard in the bar, Dare me anything, oh god.

"There are dare parties. To the latest of which, I have secured an invitation. You're my plus one, if today's students have plus ones. If not you're my mate."

"Right."

"Right."

The pasta landslide is abandoned and Sherlock stands. He is attracting attention. Of course. John sees heads turn across the room. One of them is the man who parked his car across the arch. He gives Sherlock an upwards nod, then turns back to his earnest conversation with three young girls.

Sherlock smirks. "I've got it now. Him. Tutor. But only just. Used to be a postgrad here, can't quite bear to move to the senior common room with the grown ups."

"He was fairly unpleasant," John says. "In a minor way." John has been covered in dynamite by a madman. Mere creepy lecturers don't come close.

"Nice car though," Sherlock says. "Shame about the upholstery," he adds obscurely as they leave the refectory. "Come on John! You can iron our t shirts!"

John rolls his eyes as Sherlock bounds across the quad towards their little tower and the three-bed room. "I must do this for the glamour."

"No, the glory," calls Sherlock, who has excellent hearing. "Come on, John."

The whole college has heard Sherlock treating John like his personal valet, like his - housewife. Teenagers are gawping and nudging each other. And yet -

John doesn't care. He knows his friendship with Sherlock will easily withstand slight embarrassment, also major humiliation and outrageous neglect. Sherlock does not have friends. He just has John. And that, that exclusivity, that sense of being special (yeah, special enough to do the housework) is a privilege.

John follows.

* * *

Dressing for a party where you already know you are uncool is extremely dispiriting. John is not on the pull - it would be practically criminal to consider it - and yet needs to fit in. But he is so obviously a dad figure in the eyes of these youngsters that anything he puts on will look sad and desperate.

Sherlock stares at himself in the mirror over the sink for a long time. Then he starts tearing his clothes off and hurling them across the room onto John's bed. John ducks a spinning jumper and watches in fascination and horror as Sherlock removes t shirt, jeans socks, and eventually stands in navy blue jersey trunks before the sink, frowning at himself in seeming pain.

John looks. Sherlock is so pale-skinned. If his hairstyle was less expensive he could pass for one of the geeks he was chatting up earlier.

Sherlock moves. Steps masterfully to his rucksack and removes dark items. Scowls at John. Why?

"You're staring."

John takes a breath. Yes. He was. And for once he cannot be arsed, seriously cannot be fucking arsed to deny it. "So?"

Sherlock blinks. Shrugs and snorts. Waves a hand.

John gives one more Paddington stare then turns away in silent amazement. Has he just sideswiped Sherlock?

Blimey.

Of course, Sherlock is the one who never denies that they are a couple. And maybe he enjoyed having his ego stroked just now with a glance which must have been, if not obviously appreciative, then at least rather awed. Sherlock likes to be praised.

Of course he does. Everyone does. John does (could stand a bit more of it in general, if anyone is listening.)

When John looks back, Sherlock is in his usual dark jacket and trousers but with a black t shirt underneath. He has ruffled up his hair and, John notices, squinting a little, is unshaven. Just a bit. That is a bit more than John has ever seen on him. Sherlock is obsessive about shaving and personal cleanliness in general. The stubble has appeared in the last few moments.

"Is that make up?"

"Yes of course. Look all right?"

John peers. "Pretty good. Unless someone touches it."

Sherlock grabs John's hand and presses it against his cheek. Sherlock's skin is smooth and hot. "People are hardly likely to do this, are they?"

"I guess not." John keeps his hand passive, his fingertips n the curls under Sherlock's right ear. Sherlock's skin is so soft. The stubble effect make up will smudge if John moves. He doesn't move. His heart is racing. Sherlock holds his hand in place, staring in his turn, and then drops John's hand and fiddles with his jacket, smoothing the lapels.

It is disturbing how much younger Sherlock seems. He has loosened his jaw, John realises. Made his face slack and open. He now looks about nineteen. Older if you gaze closely at the fine lines around his eyes, but who, seeing him, will look for flaws? His skin has lost the luminosity which blesses the very young. but there is no silver in his black hair, and when he smiles he could be a teenager. But he rarely smiles.

"Come on," says Sherlock. "Let's go and act as if we've never been let off the leash." He gives John a sneering glance. "Not such a stretch for some of us."

And with a distinct flounce, he stalks out of the room.

John follows him off campus and through the narrow streets of Camford to the rows of Victorian red brick terraces close to the station.

What the fuck is going on now?

It is not the nastiness. John lives with the nastiness. Sherlock is a child and throws tantrums at minor irritations. He can be hurtful and mean when things do not go his way. His spite is a very unpleasant thing to be on the reeving end of. Mostly John just ignores it, tunes it out. Sometimes he gives it right back and then they have stand up rows in which they scream into each other's faces until one of them (John) turns and stamps off. Then whoever is left (Sherlock) sulks until something happens to distract him and then he will usually text John as if nothing has happened and John burns with the frustration of it all and then decides that it is better to forget it and texts back and then eventually returns to the flat where Sherlock is eager and anxious to please and then they have a cup of tea and the row is not mentioned until next time.

No wonder that Mrs Hudson is convinced they are a proper couple, hearing all that through her ceilings. Except that a proper couple would follow a massive barney with a massive bout of make-up sex, but all John gets is the chance to admire Sherlock's latest discovery, and occasionally - very occasionally - a sideways glance which tells John that Sherlock is checking John is all right and has forgiven him. This is not exactly an apology but shows that Sherlock knows perfectly well that an apology is supposed to occur, that he has pissed John off and hurt his feelings into the bargain. The look - that heart-melting look of wary doubt, is what prevents John from actually decking Sherlock during the row, or afterwards when he fails to aplogise. Plus, if they ever resorted to violence, it would be the end. John does not believe in relationships based on physical power.

Not that he is in a relationship with Sherlock.

Exceopt that he is. Obviously. But -

"Are you joining me or just staring vacantly into the middle distance?" Sherlock asks sarcastically.

John glares at him and follows him through the door of the three storey terraced house.


	8. Grunge

Author's note: This story is meant to be on hiatus while I do Nanowrimo, but I took a break today from writing and wrote this. :-). This story is definitely about being middle aged in a young person's world... I must be feeling old. Anyway, hope you like this, and there will be more after Nano. -Sef

* * *

Inside the party house there is noise. Hideous noise. John has forgotten how terrible modern music can be. Then he feels ancient for even thinking that. He should be cool. He should be down with the kids. He's pretty sure he used to be cool. Back in the day. Oh God.

If he even has to think that then he is twenty years past his sell-by date.

He has made Sherlock buy beer to bring. Sherlock apparently thought it was sufficient to bring his own beautiful self. John thinks they will need a bribe not to get turned away at the door as predators.

For once John is dead right. And as the lad on the threshold hesitates, swaying in the deafening roar of the Glastonbury-level rave happening behind him, John has a stroke of inspiration. "We're with Compton," he bellows.

Compton, Sherlock established earlier with a swift hack of the DVLA vehicle registration database, is the name of the owner of the belligerently-driven Ford Popular. Compton Mears, soon to receive a parking ticket in the post.

The youthful gatekeeper reacts at once. "Oh, ok then, he's upstairs."

The door is opened wide and Sherlock and John are admitted, despite the obvious handicaps of age and John's dress sense.

The house is packed. There are people leaning against the walls of the ground floor landing, and more people crouching on the stairs, conducting conversations up and down through the bannisters with the occupants of other floors. At the far end on the hallway John can see bright white striplights: kitchen. Off to the left are two chipped and scored panelled wooden doors. A different barrage of music throbs behind each and coloured light leaks out into the hall. Glitter ball, John thinks. Are those cool again? Or is it retro ironic chic?

Sherlock eases into the crowd without hesitation, but stops when John grabs his arm. "Beer," says John. He has to put his lips practically to Sherlock's ear to make himself heard.

"I don't really drink," Sherlock says, wincing at the can of supermarket lager John is proffering.

"Authenticity," insists John.

"Oh. All right." Sherlock takes the can and cracks it. He leans into John in turn. "Good point. Thanks." His mouth actually touches the outside of John's ear, and his nose presses John's hair.

Bastard, he is enjoying it. Why does Sherlock feel no guilt at anything he does? He exists in a world without shame.

-Sherlock is at the centre of Sherlock's world and like the kings who believed they were gods, all his actions are considered valid. And Sherlock is at the centre of John's world, and John feels a crippling responsibility for him, and cannot behave as he would with anyone else.

John ducks away and thrusts the can into Sherlock's cold fingers. Sherlock smirks and seems pleased with himself.

John watches as Sherlock swigs from the can, wrinkles his nose at the taste, and then swarms up the staircase, dodging its occupants' legs and hands with effortless grace. He disappears into the throng on the first floor landing, and John is left holding the carrier bag full of beer.

Right. Well. He knows what to do. He says "Excuse me, excuse me," a hundred times and finally shoulders his way past couples who have not waited for a slow number, and emerges into the blinding brightness of the heart of every party John has ever been to: the kitchen.

* * *

The kitchen is almost empty. A girl - woman, John thinks, she is over eighteen therefore in her own eyes she is an adult - leans against one counter, sipping red wine from a white plastic beaker and staring bleakly at a boy and girl snogging up against the elderly fridge.

There is a Formica table in the middle of the room, covered in carriers and bottles. John dumps his contribution, and opens a beer. "Want one?" he says to the girl, since the other two are clearly busy.

"Beer is for losers," she says as he takes his first sip.

"Thanks a lot."

She shrugs, but now her attention is on him. Figuring that he had better start working since he is here, he studies her in return.

She has black hair, pulled up in dry tufts and spikes all over her head, the strands dull and straw-like from harsh dyeing. Make-up is caked on her face as far as the jawline. Loads of mascara bit lips stained only with dark wine. A red mark shows up starkly on either side of her nose: she wears glasses but has taken them off for the party. Her clothes are baggy and drab, a long black sleeveless tunic and khaki combats. Grunge, thinks John and on impulse says, "Deliberate circumvention of the expected female appearance."

She grunts in surprise. "Rebecca, actually. But good guess."

John offers his hand. "John."

"Who are you, somebody's dad?"

She clearly enjoys a non-answer, so he supplies one. "Every female mammal is born with a million eggs in her ovaries. Males have to grow into fatherhood."

This is a rather creepy idea but luckily Rebecca likes it. "You're different," she pronounces as if this is the highest compliment.

They stand sipping their drinks and watching the snoggers. "Do you know them?" asks John.

"My twin sister," says Rebecca. She curls her lip in extreme distaste.

"Sorry about that," says John, and gets a smile in return. "Listen - my friend is looking for someone. Someone he heard about. Something about - dares?"

Instant wariness. "Are you police?"

"No. I was Army though."

"Wow. A trained killer." She seems horrified and impressed. A standard reaction and one John used to milk for all it was worth in his pulling days. "What are you doing here? Special ops, Jason Bourne?" She is trying for blase and cynical, but John can hear the eagerness underneath. It is rather sweet.

"Baby sitter," he tells her. She blinks. "Not my kid. My mate. He's a bit - mad. He heard about the dares and reckons he can beat anything that's thrown at him."

"Yeah, right. Is he like a total nutter?"

She sounds eighteen now.

"Yes," says John. "I'm just trying to stop him making a total arse of himself." He gives a rueful grin. "This is not the kind of party I normally go to," he adds in his most disarming tone.

"No shit," says Rebecca, eyeing John's jeans.

"How does this dare thing work? If you know who to avoid, I can just drag him away before he causes any trouble." Not very subtle, but this ploy might work.

"Wow. Random." She seems to be considering it. "Ok," she says, and puts down her glass. She comes over to John and takes the can from his hand. "I can tell you. If you just -"

She wraps her arms around John's neck and kisses him.

He jolts in surprise and pushes her away. "Er -Rebecca -"

John gets a vision of an irate set of parents bursting in and threatening to thrash the man who has laid hands on their daughter. He slides away from her and wipes her red wine taste from his mouth.

Rebecca is smirking and pouring another brimming beaker of Cab Sauv. John sees the bottle on the counter is almost empty. Jesus. It is not even nine pm. "Drink up," she says, pointing with her own drink at John's. "You haven't earned your information yet, Mr Bond."

"You're mixing up your international playboys," says John lightly.

"Bourne isn't a playboy. The Bourne Girls would make a very short line-up." She smiles in what she probably imagined is a voluptuous way and pushes off the counter again for a further assault on John. "Anyway. You want something from me, I want something from you. Come on, it's just a bit of fun..."

Her hand is on his belt, giving it a playful tug.

He has to stop this. She might be over the age of consent, but to agree would be wrong in three different ways and he hasn't even begun to contemplate how this memory will haunt him every time he sees a bottle cheap red. "Rebecca. Stop. Listen. This won't work on me." She is slipping her hand around his waist and pressing her hips against his, breathing wine into his face. "Stop. Please. Rebecca. It won't work!"

She tilts her head and says, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," says John firmly. "I like men."

She does stop then.

John stares her down. It is an absolute truth if not a complete one, and he knows she can hear that in his tone.

"Well," she says, drawing back and swallowing more wine. "Ok then. -What, snogging men? Shagging men?"

God, kids today. Straight to the point. John would not last five minutes on the undergraduate dating scene. "Yes," he says.

"Hmmm. What's it like? Shagging a man?"

A snort of laughter from the couple by the fridge. John had totally forgotten about them. "What's up, Becs, can't you remember?" asks the girl before controlled suction resumes.

"Fuck off. So, go on, what's it like?" persists Rebecca.

"You really want to know? Ok then." John swigs his beer and eyes her in some amusement, now that the immediate danger is past. He fixes her with a steady gaze and says, "Shagging a man is exactly the same as shagging anyone else. Slippery, messy, funny, sexy."

Rebecca's eyes go out of focus. Surely he cannot actually have freaked her out with that snippet of triteness?

Then he realises that she really is looking over his shoulder, towards the kitchen door.

"I see you've met the Tongue Twins," says a condescending male voice.

John spins round and sees Compton Mears, he of the badly parked car, standing in the doorway, a cigarette in one hand, and his other arm conspiratorially and possessively around Sherlock.


End file.
